FullMetal Alchemist Drabbles
by Kimi kara tegami
Summary: A collection of short stories under five hundred words based around the characters of FullMetal Alchemist by Arakawa Hiromu. Rating subject to change, but probably not.
1. Comfort

Fuery and Havoc are my favorite pairing ever. Except not. But, from the little we see of them in the series, they seem to work fairly well. My first FMA drabble.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. If I did, I would have more money. And it would have ended differently. But then, maybe that's why I don't own it.

Two hundred eighty-three words: **Comfort**

-----

"Dope."

The first thing Kain Fuery did was drop what he was holding, which was an empty pack of Jean Havoc's cigarettes and one of his soiled undershirts. The second thing he did was yelp and search frantically for a place to hide.

Havoc, the one to find the unfortunate Fuery, grinned and tongued his unlit cigarette to the other side of his mouth. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Should I…go?" Fuery asked, little more than a squeak.

"Nah, 's fine," Havoc said, taking long strides towards the sergeant. He bent down, picked up the empty pack, and tossed it to the trash bin in a corner. "Just don't litter, 'kay?" Ignoring his own undershirt, still dumped unceremoniously on the ground, Havoc turned smartly on his heel and exited.

Fuery stared after him. His cheeks were beet red, his eyes downcast, staring at the article of clothing and hoping he could regain control of himself before someone else came in. Then, inspiration struck.

He looked to the left, then to the right, and finally at the door that was only slightly ajar.

He picked up Havoc's undershirt and toyed with the buttons on his uniform, and then, before he could change his mind, stripped down to his pants. He worked quickly, letting his uniform pile on the ground, and slipped Havoc's shirt onto his slightly smaller frame. Another look at the door; no one was coming. Drawing on his uniform again, Fuery smiled. The scent of cigarette smoke and stale sweat, along with a bit of aftershave and something spicy, wafted into his nose.

He went back to work, and when Havoc caught his eye and grinned, Fuery grinned back.


	2. Thinking

Unidentified narrator who obsesses. I'm hopped up on Excedrin. Whee. Tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: I don't own much, certainly not Fullmetal Alchemist. Anyone got fifty cents for the bus?

Four hundred seventy-three words: **Thinking**

-----

I think I'm not paid to think, but sometimes I think when I'm supposed to be doing the things for which I'm paid.

I think about him, which is something I'm most certainly not paid to do.

I think about the way his uniform fits him most of the time. It fits him well in the shoulders and not so well anywhere else, like most people, but it's like it molds itself to his torso whenever he puts it on. On anyone else, myself and even the Fuhrer included, the uniform looks frumpy and pinched and just plain bad – but on him…

I think about that grin that he wears to please the higher-ups. I of all people know that he's human, that he's not always happy or even always content. And still he shoots off that grin, scrunching up his eyes and tossing up a wave when he can pull it off and joke around. It infuriates me sometimes, and it makes me sad. I wish he would let it fall long enough to let someone – preferably me – see him cry. But in the military, we are men, and in the military, men don't cry.

I think about his hair, and his eyes, and sometimes his whole face. I wonder if, when I get the chance to run my hands through it, his hair will be soft. I wonder if, were I to get the chance to look him in the eye, I would see his secrets or his soul; even a faint glimmer of real emotion would help. I wonder if, were I given the chance to kiss him, my lips could memorize his features and store them away for a rainy day when I feel lonesome.

I think about his cigarettes, and whether or not a kiss from him would taste like one. I wonder if I could be the one to break him of his dependency, to trade one addiction for another, the other being me. Does his room smell of acrid smoke, or does he open the window, or does he just go outside? I can smell smoke on him when he walks anywhere close to me, but I wonder if that's just because he's not careful about the way it blows or if it's because it's soaked into every fiber of his life.

I think I would like to be like that, soaking into every fiber of his life.

I think if I sigh one more time, Farman's going to pelt me with a piece of equipment that needs to be repaired anyway.

I also think that, more than anything else, more than my job or more than the worry of Riza Hawkeye forcing me to work with several well-placed bullets, I think about Jean Havoc and the things about him that need to be thought about.


	3. Heat

I've been a little Havoc/Fuery-centric lately. The next one will not be Havoc/Fuery or vice versa. I can't, however, guarantee anything for the one after that. -;; I love these guys.

Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, I don't own it. Haven't you read enough of these?

Four hundred forty-four words: **Heat**

-----

Kain Fuery pushed his glasses back up on his nose for the umpteenth time that hour.

It didn't usually take him so long to walk home, but this heat was unbearable. He had taken to stopping in the shade of large trees every fifteen minutes or so, mopping his face with any dry part of his uniform jacket that he could find, trying in vain to get rid of the sweat that pooled in every hollow made by bone and skin.

And he still had two miles to go.

With a sigh, Fuery pushed away from the tree he had been leaning on and began his previous trudge. As long as he counted his steps, one, two, one, two, he could partly keep his mind off the heat.

A nasal honk sounded closely behind him before he was about to take another break, and Fuery started. He turned to glare grumpily at the car pulling up alongside him, containing one laughing, smoking Jean Havoc.

"Want a ride, kid? 'S kinda hot out there." Havoc grinned easily and flicked the ash of his cigarette out the open window.

"Wish you'd come around an hour and a half ago," Fuery grumbled as he climbed into the car. The heat was making him irritable, and he felt no reason to be polite or even shy when he and Havoc had been getting to know one another much better, enjoying a drink or two after work at least twice a week.

Fuery dumped his jacket on the floorboard at his feet, and they spent the rest of the drive to his flat in silence, for which he was grateful. Now that he was no longer counting his steps or muttering about the heat, Fuery remembered that this was the man that made his heart speed up with a simple glance or smile.

Havoc grinned at his passenger when they reached their destination not even five minutes later. "Go cool off, kid," he said with a lopsided grin. Fuery smiled back, but he didn't get out of the car.

And so they sat, eyes locked on one another like a bad staring contest, for a longer while than either of them were comfortable admitting before Fuery leaned across the distance separating them and pressed his lips to Havoc's.

Before Havoc could stop being shocked, Fuery had pulled away and was opening the passenger-side door. "Thanks for the ride," he said, and then he shut the door and marched meaningfully to his door. Havoc noted with satisfaction that the jacket had been left on the floorboard. It would need to be returned, preferably before this mood-altering heat wave let up.


	4. Shoes

Fuck it. I can't leave the boys all alone. Behold what happens at seven thirty in the morning when I have yet to sleep. Coffee! And, maybe, if I'm lucky, the next one won't have anything to do with these two…damnit…

grins But I do like the idea of Fuery back-sassing his superiors.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't really wanna own.

Four hundred twenty-seven words: **Shoes**

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"But–"

"Shut up."

"Well, but–"

"Shut up."

"But Sir–"

"Shut. Up."

"Sir, you – Havoc! We can't–"

Havoc grinned. Fuery glared, but that had shut him up, and turned him a lovely shade of red to boot, that color just between bright red and crimson that probably meant Fuery was about to have an aneurysm.

"I can't believe you just did that," Fuery finally said through gritted teeth. "Sir," he added as an afterthought.

If he dies of a massive hemorrhage in his brain, it'll be my fault, Havoc realized with another grin. He flicked his lighter, held it to the tip of the cigarette that had been in his mouth for quite a while, and tucked the lighter into a pocket. Fuery wasn't looking at him. Well, if the ground was so interesting…maybe Fuery had found a bug that would die with or without intensive care…Havoc tossed himself to the ground at the younger man's feet in order to meet his eyes. "Not speaking to me, Sergeant Major?"

"No, Sir – Agh." Havoc let him berate himself for a little while, taking a few well-needed hits of nicotine. When Fuery had himself under control, Havoc stood again.

"It was just a bit of fun, Kain," he murmured with a frown.

Silence.

"You know, I could order you to talk," Havoc pointed out, looking to the sky and taking another drag.

This too was met with silence.

"Although, I was trying to get you to shut up anyway – not that that's usually a problem."

A harrumphing sound, like air escaping from a tire, came out of the Sergeant Major. "You…you…" But he couldn't seem to get past just who had committed such an atrocity.

"No one's dead, kid, y'know?"

"Hmph."

"Shit, Fuery, it was just a ladybug."

Fuery looked horrified. "Ladybug?"

"Uh, yeah. The ladybug. I thought that was what you were–"

"You got rid of a ladybug _and_ killed a squirrel _without_ any reason _whatsoever_?"

"Squirrel?"

"Your shoe."

Havoc looked down at his feet, one clad in a boot and the other only in a sock. He had thrown the missing boot at a squirrel that had annoyed him, and…oh. Havoc sighed, dropped his cigarette, and ran a hand through already-shaggy hair before the absurdity of the situation struck him. Letting out a laugh, he clapped Fuery on the shoulder and trotted off to find his missing shoe.

"I didn't kill it, you idiot," he called behind him.

"No, you didn't," Fuery admitted under his breath. "The smell of your damn shoes did."


	5. Secret Society

This is an idea that's been playing hell with my creative process, that really wanted an AU fic written: what if alchemists were outlawed as unholy or political terrorists? Then I thought, duh, Ishvar. But I had to use it, anyway.

Disclaimer: One who disclaims. That would be me.

Three hundred ninety-five words: **Secret Society**

**-----**

Kain Fuery stood floored in the doorway. "You guys are _alchemists_?"

"Don't talk so fuckin' loud," the blond-headed boy growled.

"Brother," the one next to him, with slightly darker hair, said warningly.

"You're not gonna snitch on 'em, are you, kid?" Jean asked.

It was Jean that the small man had originally come to see, some companionship in the wee hours of the morning with coffee and the lingering scent of cigarettes in the still air of Jean's dorm room.

"You know they could execute you for that," Kain said more softly, shutting the door behind him.

"If they found out," said a smug, dark-haired man who had his feet resting on Jean's bed. He was snapping his fingers absently, and every time he did, the smell of sulfur would announce itself and a small spark would go off.

"Anyway, if he tried to tell, we could take care of him," the blond said.

"He won't," Jean said hurriedly. "Will you, Kain?" The questioned shook his head, almost frantic.

All his life, Kain Fuery had heard that alchemists were the lowest of the low, scum of the earth, the dregs of society. He had never questioned the government's choice to immediately execute anyone they found practicing the forbidden science. But that Jean, his closest and only friend, would freely associate with men like this…!

"The shrimp's got a point," the cocky one said. Ignoring the sudden rant the blond exploded into, he continued. "If you so much as mention it to anyone, you'll go up–" he snapped "in a puff of smoke."

"You don't have to threaten him, Roy," Jean said, holding an arm out for the terrified-looking Kain, who immediately went to his side. In the enveloping one-armed embrace, Kain sighed, a little more at ease. That Roy guy was kind of scary. "You either, Ed." Jean turned to look at the blond and his brother. The one Kain assumed to be Ed sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest; his brother smiled apologetically. "Kain can keep a secret."

"I keep secrets," Kain agreed. "Like this one–" he stopped. If you keep secrets, you don't tell secrets to prove that you can keep them.

To his surprise, Ed laughed, and then so did everyone else. With a wobbly smile and equally wobbly knees, he leaned into Jean for support, feeling accepted.


	6. Rain

I'm trying very, very hard to deviate from my usual pairing. Half-succeeded. GAH, but it's so stupid! Anyway. Enjoy, if it's possible.

Disclaimer: So help me if I even claim Havoc's left pinky toe.

Four hundred forty words: **Rain**

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It was raining again.

Havoc hated the rain, especially in the summer. Rain in the summer meant delaying harvest time, and harvest time was a good time for him as a kid. He would watch the older boys and their fathers in the fields, joking and reaping, calling out greetings to passersby on the nearby dirt road. And Jean Havoc would sit on the fence and watch until he was old enough to help them bring in the harvest.

Then he was the one sweating and joking with a scythe in his hands, yelling good-naturedly about the heat.

But too much rain in the summer meant a late harvest more often than not, and a late or incomplete harvest meant hungry people.

Havoc was surprised at the sentiments expressed by his friends. Fuery liked the rain unless in meant cold, wet animals. Farman, oddly enough, thought rain was romantic, something that made that 'special woman' (the one they all talked about but didn't have) want to curl up with you in front of a warm fire. Roy was closed-mouthed on the subject – not that it wasn't obvious – and Havoc had yet to get Hawkeye's opinion on the matter.

Rain.

It wasn't too complex, just some water bunching up in clouds that got too full. So it rained.

He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and held it between two fingers as he blew out the smoke.

Rain was shit for smoking cigarettes. Especially when it was pouring – the thing would be soaked down to the filter, and you'd be drawing in half a mouthful of water with every puff. It was disgusting.

Havoc heard a noise behind him and turned to look over his shoulder. "Havoc," the Colonel muttered. "Put that out."

Oh shit. That's right. He wasn't supposed to smoke in the Colonel's house.

Sighing, Havoc crushed the cigarette in the ashtray that Roy put there just because of him. "There, satisfied?"

"A little bit." Smirk. "Come back to bed."

Havoc sighed again. This was just another reason he hated the rain. Going to bed with a superior just to feel wanted for a few hours – to forget that he was almost always dateless, to put the thoughts of rain in the back of his head again. It was only when it rained that Roy thought past his legions of female fans and brought Havoc home.

But it, like rain in the summer, was pretty much unavoidable. Havoc slid between the sheets, and Roy drew him close for a kiss. At least in Roy's bed, complete with languid, silky kisses, it wasn't always so cloudy as when it rained.


	7. Colors

Oh my god what the fuck. Straight people in FMA? You're shittin' me. Nope, that's right, I wrote a gulp Winry/Al drabble. You wanna know the truth? _I'm blushing right now_.

Disclaimer: Not claiming, but you can't have it, either.

Three hundred fifty-two words: **Colors**

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Colors enchanted him.

The deep azure of the sky, the mild, softened grey of the clouds, the dark, bordering-on-black green of the trees and the bright chartreuse of the grass…a vision that was viewed as dull and commonplace to most people were dazzling to Alphonse Elric, and only recently had it become so.

See, there is a vast difference in seeing something and processing it to one's soul through two minute glows in the helmet of a suit of armor and…well, seeing it with one's own eyes. Everything that had once been drab and hazy in his armor shell was now impressing and remarkably clear in his new-old human body.

The blue and gold of the military's uniforms, his own brother's red cloak –

"Al! Alphonse! Hey, over here!"

Al raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright (possibly very yellow) sunlight, and he grinned when his eyes alit on their quarry. Winry.

They walked. Winry talked. Al looked. He had thought that she, at least, wouldn't have changed, but he was wrong. There was something different about her – not her clothes, those were the same as they had always been. She still had that bandanna over hair, which he noted was even more golden blonde than it had been last time he had seen her. Down to the piercings in her ears and the wrench in her pocket, everything was the same.

"Al? Are you okay?" He started and met her eyes, and his own widened. They were…_marvelous_. They were so blue that he could barely begin to describe the shade…sapphire and azure and cerulean and…and…

"Al!"

"W-Winry," he stammered. "I'm, erm, fine, just glad to see you again." He put on his best grin, scrunching up his eyes and showing off as many teeth as he could.

She smiled. "It's good to see you too, Al," she said, and then she kissed his cheek.

Al turned what he was sure was a remarkable shade of red as they continued walking. Perhaps Winry's eyes weren't the most colorful part of her. Her personality sure didn't leave anything to be desired.


	8. Care

This was supposed to turn out much differently than it did. Hey na, my boys are back! There will be a follow-up, possibly later tonight, to the effect of what this was supposed to be. Very, very mild Fuery/Havoc.

OH YEAH! And I really, really, _really_ want to thank Shion-san for reviewing almost religiously to every single one of my drabbles. I luff you. Not only are your reviews constructive, but they're encouraging and absolutely flattering. Luff luff luff.

Disclaimer: I lack all claimage! I claim nothing! Except, y'know, my books, 'n stuff…

Four hundred one words: **Care**

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"Oh, Jean."

It was a tired sigh, one that had sounded at least three times already this week, but it never stopped a grin from spreading across Jean's face. He set down his cigarette in the ashtray with one hand, raised the half-empty bottle of whiskey to Fuery with the other, and smiled widely. Jean Havoc was a happy drunk.

"What are you doing?" Kain asked in that same tired tone of voice. He sat in the chair opposite his flat mate, leaning half his weight on the table, and tried to fix the drunkard with a steady glare.

It had no effect but to make Jean knock back the bottle again. Making a disgusted face, the blond set the bottle back down with a thump. "'M gettin' happy," was the answer. Kain sniffed, equally disgusted, but by something different.

"That's no way to go about getting happy."

Jean shrugged and went to take another mouthful of burning whiskey but found he couldn't; it was anchored by Kain's right hand. His left was snuffing out the half-dead cigarette in the ashtray.

"I know what'll make you happy," he continued, capping the bottle and drawing it away from his companion. He also took the ashtray and dumped it, half-cigarette and all, in the trash bin. Jean made a disappointed whimper. "Some aspirin and water and a good night's sleep," Kain said pointedly, looking over his shoulder to drive his point home.

Whatever was exchanged between the two after that was lost to Jean; he was force-fed two chalky, bitter tablets and three glasses of water, eight ounces each, thank you before Kain tucked him into bed like a small child. It came back to him the next morning with the beginnings of a horrifying headache and a touch of nausea. Hold it, make that more than a touch.

Jean groaned, leaned his head against the bathtub when he was finished emptying his stomach of poison. He would never, ever, _ever_ drink again, he swore.

Another flash came, and he realized he had asked Kain a question, also child-like: "Will you take care of me?"

And Kain had said, "Of course," and kissed his forehead, brushing back strands of blond hair before wrapping an arm around him to settle in for the night.

At least that was a happy thought. It sustained him through the next half-hour of purging bile from his gut.


	9. Addiction

Hmm, drunken musings, I'm assuming? I turned Havoc into a habit drinker. This is sad. It's not even particularly angsty, even a bit fluffy towards the end, and really it has no point, kinda like this author's note…I apologize. Two hours of sleep. It's bedtime. Enjoy if you will.

Disclaimer: Note the distinct lack of the phrase, "This is mine." It's not there. You can look if you want.

Three hundred sixty-six words: **Addiction**

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It burns, sometimes. Well, most of the time. It's a good burn, though. Not like cigarette smoke up the nose or hot metal skillet on flesh. It's that feeling of being just close enough to the fire, the place where it's almost too hot, but still bearable. That is the burn of alcohol.

Maybe it's those damned animals he keeps, but Kain seems rather well adapted for a young sergeant major. I dunno – talking is therapeutic, and I know the kid talks to those animals.

More than he talks to me.

Anyway, it's not like I drink because of him. Sometimes alcohol's just about the only thing that digs underneath the calluses enough to burn.

Mustang says a woman'll take care of that problem, that if I could find enough passion in a woman that I'd be able to feel the burn without the drinking. Yeah, maybe that's all good for someone with fire buried in his every fibre. Or someone who constantly steals his subordinates' women. _My_ women.

Not for me. Not for fingers callused by triggers and one too many burns of a loose ember falling from a cigarette. Not for a heart hardened by war and loneliness. Not for a farmboy's rough hands and toughened skin. Not for me.

Back to Kain. Kain Fuery. Ah, with a mind loosened by liquid fire, I would submit to him in a heartbeat. Fuh, but he's gone for the weekend. Left the animals with me. 'S funny. Can't take care of goddamn animals. But I guess if I can't take care of his animals, I can't take care of him, either.

Fuck him. I don't need it. Next thing I know after I get him, Mustang'll turn gay and whisk him away to tepid climates and romantic, candlelit dinners.

Whatever.

So as it is, I'm gonna finish off this bottle, feed the iguana, stumble around with a dog or four outside until they do their damn business, and then I'm gonna go curl up in his bed – no, my bed – aw, hell, his is closer.

And it smells better.

'S comforting, y'know.

The smell of Kain Fuery and the burn of alcohol. It's like coming home.


	10. Adjectives

Oh my god! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's…Roy/Ed fluff? (Oh my god, tenth drabble. o.o)

HEY! LOOK AT THIS! Spoiler for episode twenty-five. Don't want to be spoiled, don't read it.

Disclaimer: Hey! I'm watching it right this moment! If I owned it, do you think I'd be watching it?

Three hundred ninety-four words: **Adjectives**

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"Puny."

"Not puny."

"Puny."

"Not puny!"

Silence reigned for a moment. Then: "Puny."

Edward clutched his face and stamped his foot. "I am not puny! Stop calling me that!"

Roy rolled over to face him, leaning his head on a hand. "Why does it bother you so much? It's nothing you can change." He looked amused.

"Hmph."

"Oh, come off it, Edward." Lying back, Roy smirked up at the ceiling. "It's nothing personal when people say, 'Fullmetal, isn't he that short alchemist?' It's just an adjective. A describing word."

"It's a bad describing word."

"Animals are short."

"Hmph."

"Babies are short."

"I'm not a baby! Next thing I know, you'll be flashing photographs of me and asking how cute I am, like Hughes!" When Ed realized what he had said, he clapped a hand over his mouth. "I'm – I–"

"Ed," he said more heavily, "there's nothing you can do about that, either. He's dead." His voice cracked slightly. "Another adjective." Clearing his throat, Roy went on. "Anyway, some adjectives you can change. Long hair can become short hair, small can become big, loud can become quiet and vice versa. That's just one that won't change, dead."

"Roy." Edward crawled across the bed and flopped down on his side, snuggling up against the colonel with an arm around his waist and his face on his chest. "It's…it's okay to cry," he offered.

"I'm not going to apologize for calling you short all the time," Roy murmured, evading the previous statement gracefully. He ruffled Ed's hair. "But maybe you'll have a growth spurt one of these days and then, maybe, you'll be as tall as Hawkeye." With a sigh, Roy gathered the smaller man in his arms and kissed his temple lovingly. "Like I said, adjectives change." Ed was about to say something, but he was shushed with another kiss. "Not all of them, but some, and maybe one day you'll be Fullmetal, that tall alchemist."

Ed grumbled and smacked his lover's bare stomach gently.

"You know, you're lucky I'm fond of seafood," Roy started.

Glaring, Ed muttered, "Don't you dare."

"In fact, I'm especially fond off…"

"Don't," warningly.

"…shrimp."

"Augh! I'm not a shrimp! I'm not I'm not I'm not!" Edward threw himself from the bed and raced down the hall, the sound of Roy's laughter following him all the way to the kitchen.


	11. NonFiction

I'm sad, and I wanted angsty!Fuery, but I can't write angst tonight. Where the hell did my angst go? -looks back at his FFN account- Oh yeah, that Gundam Wing fic. Righto. Oh yeah, embarrassing Fuery is my new hobby. Can you tell? Oh, and watch out for the italicization. It's killer in this one. Rock! I heart italics. Sleepy time.

Oh yeah. And ULTRA-thanks to Shion-san for the lovely reviews. Lovely lovely heart heart.

Disclaimer: I'm looking for a _boyfriend_. Do you think I _care_ that I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist?

Two hundred seventy-two words: Non-Fiction

-----

Sergeant Major Kain Fuery was licking an ashtray.

No, really, Fuery was _licking an ashtray_.

Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc's ashtray, to be precise. Who else would have an ashtray in this office?

But really…licking an ashtray.

Hawkeye scoffed loudly and had to stifle a smile – not that it took much effort – when Fuery leapt almost a foot into the air and dropped the ceramic ashtray to the floor, where it shattered. He spun, twirled really, making three revolutions before he stopped at attention and saluted. "Ah – Lieutenant Hawkeye," he said, obviously abashed and red as a cherry tomato. "I can…I can explain."

"No, you can't," she told him matter-of-factly. "And I'd suggest that you don't try." What was she in here for, again, before she had caught Fuery in his ashtray-licking frenzy. Oh, yes. More paperwork, that was right. "You should pick that up," she added, waving at the shattered mess on the ground. Ch, forget the paperwork. Deal with it later. Take up Mustang's motto and do it later. _Later_, Riza, _later_. Leave Fuery to his ashtray. Er, Havoc's ashtray.

With a hand to her forehead, Hawkeye said, "Carry on," and turned abruptly, stalking back out the door. Usually she didn't let her thoughts get that jumbled – Riza Hawkeye, unlike many people (read 'men') she knew, was fairly organized. Of course, perhaps jumbled thoughts were just a part of walking in on Fuery having a rather intimate moment with an ashtray.

That could be the name of a bad romance novel, she mused: _An Intimate Moment with an Ashtray_.

_By Riza Hawkeye_.

She didn't bother to stifle the snigger that followed.


	12. Assistance

OH MY GOD I'M BACK! With the best couple ever, except not exactly in this one, but w-h-a-t-e-v-e-r. AND with my longest drabble! Right now, I'm in English, and I'm so tired that I'm getting dizzy spells, so if you see any mistakes, please tell me, and I'll fix 'em pronto. Side note: I love this class 'cause we can make coffee.

Disclaimer: I have a boyfriend, I'm full, and I'm tired. I have homework piled to my eyebrows. I don't think I'd even _want_ to own Fullmetal Alchemist at this point.

Inspired by a bit of magnetic poetry. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to get about six more out of the poems that me and my friend's girlfriend put together. This one was "because you're looking kiss me," and before anyone says it, yeah, it didn't turn out how I thought it would, either.

Five hundred words: **Assistance**

-----

"Hey."

Jean looked up from his book, dark rings under bloodshot eyes like negatives of the crescent moon. He smiled. "Evening, Kain." And returned to his text.

With a frown, Kain marched indignantly until he stood in front of the second lieutenant. "Hey!"

"What?" Jean sighed, sounding exasperated. Hawkeye had held him literally at gunpoint in order to get him to finish his paperwork instead of his nap, and he had really wanted to finish that nap. And now, when all he wanted was a little bit of Jean time, reading a book and polishing off a pack of smokes, here was Sergeant Major Annoying and his cryptic "hey"s.

Not that Jean didn't love the kid to bits – he was normally quite enamored with Kain, but this evening, it was a bit much.

Whimpering, Kain said, "Nothing," and sat beside him on the old couch. And he was pouting. Now that's just playing dirty, Jean thought with a tired smirk.

He shut the book on his finger, marking his place, and turned to face his buddy, who was darting tentative glances in Jean's direction every now and again, almost like he was expecting a reprimand or chastising. "What's on your mind?"

He took a deep breath. "D'you…d'you think anyone'd…y'know…uh, love me?" he asked, finishing in a squeak.

"Like who? Got anyone in mind?" Jean asked. He reached over for the last cigarette in his pack, and as he lit it, Kain nodded. "Well, who is she?"

"Uhm…" Kain fidgeted. "It's, uhm, kind of not a she," he hedged.

Jean let out a cloud of blue smoke and fixed Kain with a blank stare that said very frankly, And? "So who is _he_, then?"

"Uhm, well, uh, I…Colonel Mustang," Kain blurted.

Jean almost choked on smoke and, dropped his cigarette. It began smoldering in the carpet before he realized what he had done and bent quickly to pick it up. He hit is head on the bottom of the coffee table on his way up and cursed. "No use," he said with a wince, rubbing the back of his head.

"What?"

"No use," he repeated patiently. "Either he's wrapped up in Hawkeye or one of the Elric brothers – hell if I know which. 'Sides, he's way out of your league."

Kain drew himself up. "I could get him!"

Jean snorted.

"What?"

"Guys like me'n you gotta settle for second-best when guys like Mustang're around." Jean laughed with – what was that, bitterness? – in his voice.

"What's second-best, then?" Kain asked, drawing his legs up. Jean had to admire the kid's tenacity.

Jean seemed to ponder. After a moment, he said, "You." Exhale. "Me. We're second-best with Mustang around." He inspected what was left of his cigarette boredly. "And that's that."

"Oh." Kain sighed and stood. "Thanks anyway." He turned to leave, head drooping.

"Hey," Jean called.

"What?"

"All you have to do is ask." Jean winked, opened his book, extinguished his cigarette, and let a very perplexed Kain Fuery show himself out.


	13. Steam

Another magnetic poetry wonder! This one was, erm, hold on. It was 'nearby to my heart a piece of heaven.' I tried about six different stories with that one, too; it didn't really want to be written, and this is really cheesy. I think next time one of them doesn't want to be written, I won't write it.

HEY LOOK HERE BITCHES! Ep 25 spoilerz, yo.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't want 'em if they're going to be like this.

Three hundred six words: **Steam**

**-----**

"Coffee." Breathing deeply, I close my eyes.

Smiled at my bespectacled friend. Took a sip. "I appreciate it, Maes."

He grinned back. "Black ,two sugar." He sat beside me and folded his hands between his knees. Staring at the wall in front of us, he sighed, and I assumed he was just as tired of this war as I was.

I took a drink of coffee and waited. When Maes Hughes had something to say, he would say it, and that was that.

"Roy," he said quietly, "if I died, right now, and you lived, what would happen?" he asked, turning a pensive gaze to me.

I almost spat out my coffee; this was not the Maes I had come to know, the occasional prankster, the natural joker. Where had this depressed one come from and did I still have the receipt?

Setting down my mug, I spoke carefully. "I would make sure you had a proper burial," I said slowly. "I would take care of Gracia for you." Pause. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth at the mention of his sweetheart. "But most of all, I guess, I would miss you."

He raised his eyebrows high, but he said nothing.

"I would keep your picture where it belongs." Turning slightly to face him dead on, I tapped the left side of my chest with two fingers, thud thud. "Right here." When he gave a sad smile, I punched his arm. "But you're not going anywhere, you hear me? Nowhere but out of this hellhole."

And he laughed.

And I open my eyes, staring at my reflection in the window, the steam of my coffee floating upward to bathe my face. I've kept my promise, Maes. Now what?

Ducking my head, I don't care that tears splash into the coffee I hold.


	14. Lysis

More magnetic poetry! 'you haven't told me your dreams' this time. Fairly obvious, I think.

My writing is deteriorating slowly. I think it's because people rarely SHUT THE FUCK UP in this class. It really pisses me off that people can't stay quiet for more than three minutes at a time unless they're threatened by the teacher.

Disclaimer: I kinda wish I did own it sometimes, you know? But I don't, and as far as I know, you don't either.

Five hundred words: **Lysis**

-----

It's late. I think it's three in the morning, but I don't want to find my glasses and look at the clock. I'm too comfortable, curled in a loose ball on my left side with his heavy arm draped over my ribs, his breath on the back of my neck, his chest firm against my back, expanding and sinking in coincidence with the warmth at my nape. Occasionally, he makes little sleepy noises and clutches at the old t-shirt I wear to bed or trails callused fingertips low over the waistband of my sweatpants, but he doesn't wake up. I turn onto my right side to face him, and he pulls me closer in his sleep, tucking me into the hollow made by his neck and shoulder.

It's late, but I can't sleep. I don't really want to, not really, even though I'm exhausted. His face, usually pretty much devoid of expression, looks relaxed and a little worried. His eyebrows are drawn slightly together; his lips are pursed; as I watch, his eyes draw up into a pained squint. I put a hand on his chest. His face loosens again, and nubby fingernails scratch at my back before he sighs with a gentle keening noise. He smiles slightly, only for a moment, and then it disappears, but it makes me smile, too.

It's late, and I'm dozing, on the border between sleep and wakefulness, when he twitches violently. I'm awake in a moment, my eyes wide open even though things are blurry without my glasses. With flailing that's more than a little scary, he thrashes away from me, taking the bedclothes with him, and lets out a groan like an animal in pain. I touch his shoulder, and he flinches away. He's panting now, laying on his back, chest heaving with every breath. His face is screwed up tightly, and I feel like I'm going to hear the bones in his face begin to creak any time now. I scream for him to wake up, shake him by the shoulder, and he comes to with a cry and a start. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back with one of his hands fisted in the collar of my shirt and the other drawn up to slug me, my lower body pinned by his. I keep still. This happens often enough that I know not to aggravate him. Realization dawns in his eyes, and he lets me go and sits back on his heels. He apologizes and gathers me in his arms, kissing the top of my head as I listen to his heart slow. Ne, Jean, what was your dream about? He doesn't answer, just smiles sadly like he always does and lies back down, taking me with him. I know he's not going to discuss it, and he's not going to sleep until at least dawn, but I can't stay up anymore. I'm falling asleep.

I'm falling asleep, and you still haven't told me your dreams.


	15. Hygiene

Whee, I know it's been forever since I've thrown a drabble at you guys, and this one is hardly worth the wait. –ducks books and laptops and randomly thrown cats- Well, like I said, I'm sorry. Uh…it's not even that long. Ch'k'so. Ahh well…enjoy the Roy/Ed fluff.

I have plans to start on a –FAKE– 'fic soon, maybe also some Naruto drabbles. This does not mean that this'll be stopped, because FullMetal Alchemist is still something of my lifeblood, but you can probably expect the same amount of updates you've gotten since…what…last time, I dunno. Here's praying the next one's relatively good.

Geez, it's not even WAFFy! What the hell is wrong with me? Inspired by the magnetic poetry "you're like Braille love but seen too."

(By the way, if you've got this on alert, I figure you've gotten the alert three times already. Sorry; I keep leaving stuff out.)

Disclaimer: Maybe you like a stubbly Roy, but I don't want him. You can have him.

Two hundred sixty-two words: **Hygiene**

-----

Roy Mustang rarely showed it, and he didn't really look it, but he was a nuzzler, one of those people who turns into a cat when affectionate and sleepy and rubs his face against anything close. This was what woke Ed one bright morning, squinting at the glare of the sunlight and his ears registering a scritch-scritch-scritch.

Turning his head to the side, Ed mumbled something incoherent. Roy's chuckle was a throaty resonation in his chest, and still the scritch-scritch-scritch.

"Roy," Ed finally said, not moving his lips lest he expend energy.

"Hmm?" Scritch. Shoulder, neck, throat, all equally scritched.

"You're drivin' me fuckin' bugnuts. Stop it."

"Nah."

Roy threw himself on top of his lover and rested his chin on the flesh of his chest.

"Gerroff."

"Why?"

"You're damn heavy."

Ed opened one eye and fixed it on the colonel, on the small, satisfied smile, the dark colouring of too few nights of good sleep, the raven hair disheveled and falling hilter-kilter over half-lidded eyes. And always the eyes, piercing even when half-asleep, the ones that always fluttered a bit before he stole a kiss.

Unfortunately, Ed knew this and was having none of it. His human hand darted out and covered Roy's mouth.

"Go brush your teeth."

Roy made a keening noise and went to rub his cheek against Ed's, but this time, cold steel met him halfway.

"And shave, for god's sake."

With a sigh and a grumble about picky bedmates, Roy rolled himself out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. Shaving was for weekdays, damnit.


	16. Game

Inspired by the magnetic poetry "don't I know one word hi." Very, very, very light Royai. I'm so ashamed. Never, ever, ever would I have thought I would do a Royai, no matter how subtle or how stupid Roy would seem. GAH!

Anyway, enjoy. I'm actually rather proud of this one. I'm very satisfied with it.

Disclaimer (forgot this again…!): Eww, straight romance, why would I want that? So no, it's not mine.

Four hundred ninety-five words: **Game**

-----

Across the room was a dream. A dream with a gun. A dream that knew how to use that gun and could castrate him with a bullet before he could get close enough to see said gun.

"Damn."

"What's with the frown, Roy? It's a party!" Maes slapped him enthusiastically on the back, sloshing the whiskey in his glass over the front of his uniform. Roy turned with a glare of Death at his friend, who just laughed. Laughed. Gracia was at his side; Roy hadn't seen those two out of each other's company since they had returned from Ishvar. Sheer dumb luck; then again, neither of them was a great catch, so Roy supposed they deserved each other.

He turned around again and hunched over his now half-full glass, trying to hide the wet spot on the front of his uniform.

"Aw, come on, Roy, what's got you so down?" Maes said as he sat beside his friend. Gracia excused herself and left them alone.

Roy looked at him. It wasn't as though he couldn't trust Maes; for god's sake, worse things had happened that he had confided in the man. After a moment, he lifted his glass to his lips and pointed to the woman. Discreet. Smooth. Very Roy Mustang.

He watched Maes take her in with his eyes, heard the low whistle of appreciation. Who cared that her hair was in a short cut as per military regulations, or that she wasn't wearing a skimpy skirt, or that she wasn't wearing as much makeup as a civilian would? Roy didn't.

"So what's her name?" Roy muttered, figuring his friend would know.

"Riza Hawkeye," Maes responded, ordering his own glass of something. "Near-new. Vicious with a pistol."

With a smirk, he mouthed her name: _Ri_za _Hawk_eye. Oh yeah. That was nice. Then she was gone.

"Bloody Mary on the rocks." A sturdy female voice sounded near his shoulder, nearly barking out the order, and he turned to see who it was.

Riza Hawkeye.

Who else.

Say something, he told himself. He could feel Maes poking at his thigh under the bar with a stubby finger, but all he could see were the eyes in front of his. _Say something!_

Her eyes were slightly wide, teeth tugging at a full bottom lip like indecision ruled her mind.

_Say something! FUCKING SAY SOMETHING!_

"H-hi," Roy stammered. He was immediately aghast; Roy Mustang didn't stutter.

Riza gave him a half smile, took her drink and left the two men at the bar. All of a sudden, his uniform was stuffy, and the booze fumes were making him dizzy, or was that something else?

Maes leaned over and whispered, "Regulations, Roy. Fraternization, Roy. Fun, isn't it?"

Soon Maes was leaning over the bar, cradling a boxed ear as Roy wandered with a purpose to the dance floor, not caring that his uniform was still wet with whiskey. He prayed for Gracia to return and kiss it better.


	17. Training

…Don't ask.

Disclaimer: Dunn belong to me, though I would sincerely like to have a Havoc or Fuery of my own.

Four hundred forty-seven words: **Training**

-----

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no!" Havoc picked up the small dog that was about to leave its mark by the scruff of its neck and danced around in a circle. "No, no, you don't piss in here, you stupid mutt, you do that outside!"

Stupid Fuery going out of town. Stupid Fuery leaving this stupid dog with him. Stupid dog trying to piss on the stupid wallpaper. Havoc carried the dog outside at arm's length – he hadn't gotten familiar enough with the damn thing to call it by its name yet – and crouched, letting it drop six inches or so to the ground. "You piss out here," he said. "Out _here_." He swept his arm over the lush green lawn that didn't belong to him, but belonged to his neighbor, tee hee, the one Havoc just couldn't stand. That kid had parties. Weird parties that kept him up all night. Neighbors could deal with a yellow patch on their lawn.

The dog just looked at him.

"Ugh." Havoc spat and lit up a cigarette – "Don't smoke around the dog," Fuery had said. Yeah, right. "Like this, you stupid mutt." He squatted by one of the neighbor's rose bushes and lifted his leg, pretending to take a gratifying piss, sigh and all. "See, now I feel better, and I did it in the right place. Now you try."

The dog tilted its head to the side, but otherwise it didn't move.

"All right, fine." Havoc looked up and took a long drag from his cigarette. "Don't be using my wallpaper as a toilet, though." He'd take a damn boot to the thing's head – "He's not house-trained yet, but that shouldn't be a problem," Fuery had said. Yeah, right.

"C'mon, mutt." He picked up the dog again and carried it inside. Then he lifted it to eye level. "If you have to do anything bladder- or colon-related, you scratch on the door, got me?" The dog sneezed when a drifting tail of smoke met its nose.

And it let out a bladder full of urine on his uniform.

That was it. This dog was going to run away. And Fuery would never, ever, ever find him.

Havoc yawned. "Tomorrow morning," he told it, "you're dead meat."

-----

The dog made that a hard thing to do when he woke the next morning with it curled up beside his ribs, small breaths and a quick heartbeat rubbing fur against his skin. He felt his face contort into a sleepy smile.

"Maybe we should just make Fuery piss outside," he grumbled to it, rolling over. It yipped and scampered over his side to snuggle against his chest, his own little space heater.


	18. Commoneo

Popped into my head while reading Mint Pizza Queen's sixty-eighth part of _Crack Avenue_, entitled 'Plushies.' Don't let that fool you.

Disclaimer: _Fullmetal Alchemist_, its characters and settings belong to Arakawa Hiromu and various television and publishing companies. I'm just a bastard that likes making little girls cry.

Episode twenty-five spoilers. Am slowly reworking my way through the manga, but I haven't gotten back to that part yet. So whichever chapter corresponds to episode twenty-five.

Two hundred twenty-eight words: **Commoneo**

-----

Sometimes she would whimper in her sleep.

Gracia could hear it all the way in the next room, her daughter tossing and turning and crying out. Whenever this happened, she would bite her comforter and turn over in the too-large bed, waiting for the inevitable and fighting back the tears.

Elysia would sit up in her bed with a shout not long after, and Gracia would hear her sobbing, albeit quietly, like she didn't want to wake her mother.

There would be the sound of blankets rustling, and the one of small, socked feet padding down the carpeted hallway. Gracia's door would creak open slowly, and a voice that sounded much younger than it was would whisper, "Mommy?"

She would wipe her tears away and try to smile as she sat up to look at her daughter. She would feign ignorance. "Are you still awake, Elysia? You have school tomorrow."

"I know." And the girl, twelve years old now, would climb into the bed and snuggle up close to her mother. They wouldn't talk about what had woken Elysia, or what made Gracia wait up for this exact moment every night.

Gracia would hum an old lullaby and cry softly, rocking her baby girl.

And Elysia would try to sleep, dwelling on the fact that she could still see her daddy in her dreams.

Laughing.

Loving.

Living.

...Dieing. 


End file.
